Category Archives: about being pretty

Today I got my hair cut. I look as saucy as can be. But this is not my point. My point in the inanity of hairdressers. Again.

I get my hair cut at a different place from where I get it coloured (Oh Mieka, can you do no wrong?) on recommendation from my little sister.

My sister, who is rad, is getting married in less than two weeks. As I was getting caped and gowned by my lovely ‘stylist’ (you’re not supposed to call them ‘hairdressers’ any more) the woman who cuts my sister’s hair recognised me.

Woman who cuts my sister’s hair: She’s coming in soon to get her hair done for the wedding! How exciting!

Me: Yeah, we’re all pretty excited about it.

MY stylist, who had been listening to this, stops short, mid cape buttoning, and gazes at me in the mirror.

My stylist: Your sister is getting married?

Me: Yes, next Sunday.

My stylist: And she’s okay with you getting your hair cut so close to the wedding?

WTF. Was she serious? I thought she wasn’t, so I laughed. And then I realised she WAS. And then there was a very interesting conversation in which I explained that my sister was actually one of those amazing creatures who DOESN’T CARE if her sister’s hair doesn’t match her squillion dollar wedding shoes and if her best friend’s nails don’t match the flower arrangements she will not have an apoplexy because my sister has the common sense to understand that weddings have NO NEED to be the retarded circus that so many insist on them being.

I find it ASTONISHING how many people can’t wrap their heads around the simplicity of the coming ceremony.

Random person: So… wait… you’re not a bridesmaid? She’s not having bridesmaids? But… but what flower arrangement is she getting? THE FLOWERS ARE NOT GOING TO BE ARRANGED!?

As much as we all love the look of flowers that look like they’ve been bred in a science lab and then hair sprayed together (see above), no. They are not going to be arranged.

I would like to take the time to a) apologise for initially calling my ‘stylist’ inane, because clearly this is an issue that she’s had to deal with many times before. She even told me her sister made her grow out her fringe for her wedding. Clearly her sister is not as amazing as my sister.

and b) thank my sister for being the awesome person she is.

* My sister’s name is not Mavis. That is just what I call her sometimes to piss her off. As she sent me a text message today saying ‘hi penisbreath’, I think I am allowed to Mavis her up today.

I just read a WONDERFUL article written by the type of person who really should be the ruler the universe. If everyone had the same kind of attitude as this woman does, then this world would be far more tolerant and a rad place to live. Hence my title. Of course, I think MY mum is the best mum ever, which is to be expected (but seriously, she is) so this woman could be like, my mum’s High Chancellor or Advisory Queen or something.

Sarah from Mieka totally fixed my hair. She is rad. If you are looking for a good colourist in a good salon I from Syria can’t reccomend her enough. Even if you don’t live nearby, I have learned from my cat-on-head experience it is totally worth the hike. Plus Smith St fun fore and aft your appointment!

George and I went out to dinner last night and were served by an American waitress from Ohio.

When asked if she liked living in Australia she said, ‘yeeeeah, but fashion in Melbourne is totally weird. I can’t shop.’ And so I start getting all diplomatic about it, and start saying shit like, yes, well, Melbourne is quite proud of their fashion you know, we don’t really do the whole chain store thing.’ and she’s all ‘I know, I can see that, I can’t handle not having a GAP around and you guys wear the weirdest things, it’s like, omg.’ And I could see that as she said ‘oh my god’, she actually spelled it in her head as ‘omg.’

So she starts rattling off the weird aspects of Melbourne fashion, like boots and layers and broaches and accessories and pretty much describing exactly what I was wearing down to the two different earrings in each ear.

Today it was very hot so I decided to be brave and wear shorts. This is brave because I am pasty white like a vampire, and not even Hot-Vampire-Pasty-White, just stupid pasty white like a person who never tans. And I try and get all superior about it and say ‘eeew, tans, so bad for you!’ but this is because I don’t have one.

But I thought I would practice wearing shorts and get over the whole pasty white thing and then I realised that pastiness was the least of my worries because every time I sat down my thigh rippled like a golf ball. And in case I am drowning in metaphor too much here (get it!?) what I am talking about people is CELLULITE. And there I am on the train rippling and trying to spread my bag all over my lap to cover it up and failing miserably and feeling terribly self conscious especially when a bunch of girls got on said train looking all annoyingly un-pasty and toned. Bitches.

I realise I was probably the only person in the whole world who noticed my golf ball thigh. But this is not the point. One person is enough to notice and so what if that person was me.

Luckily I was only going to my parent’s house, and it’s kind of the rule that parents think you look beautiful no matter what you look like, but I don’t think I’m going to manage shorts around anybody who is not immediate family anymore. It just stresses me out too much.

This evening I went to the service station across the road from my house to buy a family block of chocolate to eat All By Myself, which is a little wretched in itself on a Saturday night at 10.30pm.

So I’m feeling somewhat delicate and I go to the counter and try to look like this was a family block of chocolate I was about to share with a rocking party I was hosting or whatever so the service station man wouldn’t think I was as wretched as I was thinking myself to be. So I’m all smiley and whatnot like wooo rocking party at my house just ducked out to get some chocolate you know, and service station man says: “You are looking really, really great. Just great.”

At this point I’m all oooooh that is SO NICE but privately thinking I can’t BELIEVE that the only person appreciating my greatness right now is the service station man that I see every day who probably knows I’m not hosting a rocking party At All but whatever it’s still all nice and maybe I should just suck it up and feel good about myself and just as I was planning to do this he follows up with:

As the reason I wanted red hair. And then I got red hair. And my other reason for my red hair was this: I wanted to corner a market.

You see, if a guy likes a redhead, he really likes a redhead, and I like to think I’m a pretty cute redhead. Not quite as cute as the one above but somewhat cute. So I’m all excited about really raising the stock price so to speak and coming out on top of the ranger game here.

AND THEN.

I get a Facebook friend request. And this isn’t MySpace people, as far as I’m concerned you don’t befriend people on Facebook unless you’re actually friends with them or at the very LEAST have met them. And I’ll be fair, I’m not, by any means, actual friends with everybody on my Facebook page. But at least I’ve met them and I do regular culls.

So I get my Facebook friend request and it’s some RANDOM guy who attaches the following message:

Oh gal, i love red hair, show me show me.. redheads make the best glamour photos!! show me already!!! heeh.. hi.

EW EW EW EW EEEEEEEWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I don’t know what’s worse, what he wrote or the grammar he used. Probably what he wrote.

The moral of this story is that I attract creepy men no matter what colour my hair is.